Tom Allister rode up the winding trail that led to his father’s mountain ranch. The day had been long, and the sun was beginning its slow descent, slipping away into that unknowable world beyond the horizon. A sky heavy with the weight of coming rain hung overhead, pressing down like the ache of unspoken words.
The horse beneath him, a weathered bay with a white blaze down its face, moved slowly, matching her rider’s own weariness. Dust rose in small clouds with each hoof fall, settling on Tom’s worn boots and the frayed hem of his trousers. The ranch came into view, a scatter of short, squat buildings next to a rough collection of corrals perched on the edge of a crumbling mesa. It looked smaller than he remembered, like time had taken its toll. Time is only ever hard.
The house, once painted white, was now a peeling skeleton, its windows dark and hollow. The barn sagging like an old man too weak to carry the weight of his years. Tom dismounted slowly, his bones aching in protest. He patted his horse’s neck, murmuring softly to her and then led her to an empty corral. He wasn’t sure if anyone would greet him. No one did.
His father, Elias, had lived on this ranch long before Tom had learned to walk and had remained as long as Tom had been gone. There had been words.
Standing at the edge of the porch, Tom hesitated, staring at the peeling paint. It looked frail now, like everything else. There had been a time when this place had seemed invincible, just like his father. Tom once imagined he’d never set foot here again, that he’d die somewhere out there in the wild country or in some nameless town. But now, standing on the familiar wood, he wasn’t sure which he feared more—returning, or never returning.
Inside, the house was stale, the air tinged with the scent of decay and dust. The only light came from the last rays of the setting sun, slanting through grimy windows. Tom walked through the rooms, his boots loud and hollow on the wooden floors. He found his father in the bedroom, lying on a narrow cot, his breath coming in shallow pulls.
Elias McAllister lay gaunt and still, his skin thin and cracked like paper too long in the sun, stretched tight over bones that seemed too brittle to hold him together. His eyes, once bright, now dimmed and cloudy, turned toward Tom. A flicker of recognition passed through them. He tried to smile but it twisted into a dry cough that rattled through him, leaving gasping silence in its wake.
“Tommy.”
“Pa.”
Tom moved to the bedside, standing awkwardly, unsure of what to do. The room seemed to press in around him, filled with the weight of all the things they hadn’t said. A wry smile played across the old man’s cracked lips.
“You come to see me off?”
“Reckon so.”
Tom looked around the room, tasting the familiar dust, ancient and unchanged. “You still sip’n tequila?”
The old man jerked his withered thumb over his shoulder. “Ever damn day I’m breath’n.”
“Alright then.”
Tom pulled a chair close and sat, the wood creaking under his weight. For a long moment, they sat in silence, the room filling with the heavy quiet of two men who had spent their lives saying little.
Elias broke the stillness first. “I’m not afraid to die, Tommy. But I reckon you are.”
Tom looked away, the truth of his father’s words cutting deeper than any knife. He had spent his life running from death, from the memories of war and loss that haunted his dreams. He’d buried friends, seen too many good men die in places that didn’t matter. Now, at the edge of his own years, the fear had grown into a shadow that followed him everywhere.
“Die’n ain’t the easy part,” Tom said quietly.
Elias nodded, understanding in his eyes. “We all got our burdens, son. We just carry ‘em different.”
The night settled around them, the house creaking and shifting as if remembering its own past. Tom brought water and what little food he had, coaxing his father to eat. It was a meager meal, but it filled the space between them.
In the hours that came, Tom started to talk, words spilling slow and rough, like a creek finding its way through stone. He spoke of the roads he’d taken, the horses and cattle, of the friends buried in far-off places, and all the wild country that had passed beneath him. Elias listened, his eyes steady, not saying a word, offering no judgment. Just the quiet comfort of knowing, and what little there was in that.
He remembered the fights, the day he rode off for good. Over something small, something that didn’t matter now but had torn them apart all the same. A wound they’d both carried, never spoken of, never healed.
In the early hours, Elias slipped into sleep, his breath thin and broken. Tom stayed there, watching, feeling the weight of all the years and what they’d left behind, regrets heavy on his shoulders. He’d never said goodbye before, never made peace with the man who had first shaped him.
The next day, Tom set to work around the ranch, tending to the few animals still there, fixing what was left to fix. The work settled him, the rhythm of it pulling him back to simpler times. He checked on Elias through the day and watched him slip further away with each passing hour.
On the third day, Elias woke in the early dawn, his eyes clear and bright for the first time since Tom had arrived. He reached out, his hand trembling, and Tom took it, holding it gently.
“Tommy,” Elias said, his voice stronger than it had been in days. He smiled, patted Tom’s hand. “I’m glad yer home, son.”
The words hit Tom like a blow, the emotion welling up inside him, choking him. He had waited a lifetime to hear them, and now, at the end, they were almost too much to bear.
“Rest easy, Pa,” he managed to say, his voice breaking.
Elias nodded, his grip tightening briefly before his hand fell away. He closed his eyes, a peaceful smile on his lips, and took one last, shuddering breath. Tom watched as the life slipped from his father’s body, feeling the finality of it settle over him like a heavy blanket.
He sat there for a long time, holding his father’s hand, letting grief and relief and shame wash over him. When he finally stood, he felt a strange sense of calm, a quiet acceptance that he had not known before.
Tom buried his father on the hillside overlooking the ranch, under a solitary pine that stood like a sentinel against the sky. He marked the grave with a simple wooden cross, a tribute to a hard life lived with quiet dignity.
In the days that followed, Tom found himself lingering at the ranch, unable to leave. The old ghosts that had haunted him seemed to fade, replaced by a sense of purpose. He worked the land, repaired the buildings, and slowly, the ranch began to take on new life.
Neighbors, a sparse scattering of ranchers and farmers, came by to pay their respects. They brought food and what supplies they could spare, offering silent support. Tom accepted their kindness, finding solace in the small community. It felt good to be remembered and he laughed with them when they shared stories about Elias and thanked them each for their generosity.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Tom sat on the porch, a cup of coffee in his hand. The sky blazed with colors, the beauty of the land filling him with a quiet peace. He thought of his father, of the hard lessons and the love that had been buried under years of silence. A faint memory of violence flickered in his mind—he heard the screams, smelled the smoke but then it was gone. Distant now, a specter fading into the past.
As the stars began to appear, Tom leaned back in his chair, the cool night air washing over him. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the night. The land was still here. He was still here. For the first time, the gathering darkness felt like peace.
And in the quiet of the desert night, the old cowboy cried.